


i don’t wanna be myself (it’s making me so unwell)

by obsessivelymoody



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: 2014, Depression, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, it's a minor description but if that triggers you please be wary!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-11-16 09:38:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18091916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obsessivelymoody/pseuds/obsessivelymoody
Summary: Dan struggles with adjusting to his medication.





	i don’t wanna be myself (it’s making me so unwell)

**Author's Note:**

> based on the prompt: “I'd kill for coffee...literally.”
> 
> Thanks to [lovestillaround](https://lovestillaround.tumblr.com/) for prompting it! (sorry it took so long!!)
> 
> Huge thanks to [schiefergrau](http://schiefergrau.tumblr.com/) for beta reading this <3

_“Okay Daniel, you’re going to want to take one of these as instructed each day, I’d try it later in the evening at first in case they make you drowsy, but if you’re experiencing trouble sleeping take it a few hours earlier.”_

_“Right.”_

_“And symptoms may include anxiety, nausea, and trouble sleeping or drowsiness. Another common symptom is weight gain.”_

_“Okay.”_

_“And it’s going to take a few weeks for your body to adjust to the medicine. You’ll most likely experience long bouts of nausea in the first few weeks, but that should fade entirely or be experienced much less frequently. Give us a ring if it stays severe for longer than a month, or if you notice any other unusual side effects outside of the information packet. Do you have any questions?”_

_“Um...no, actually. I think I’ve got it. Thank you for your help.”_

_“No worries, Daniel. Take care.”_

*

Dan listens to Phil’s breaths even out, become slow and deep and peaceful. 

It’s something he’s listened to countless times before, something he waited to hear that first night in October with him nearly five years ago. It’s grounding. It always has been, to have Phil next to him, living and breathing and calm and just _there_. 

But now all he feels is guilt. Guilt over the tension swirling in his gut and making his head spin, the only relief coming in deep sleep, something he doesn’t seem to be able to achieve anymore. Guilt over not being able to sleep because his thoughts are too busy drawing harsh scribbles in his brain with a violent determination he didn’t know he had in him. Guilt over two and a half weeks of dealing with this with no discernible change. Guilt because the man lying next to him, whose breaths he’s taken to counting in a poor attempt to try and sleep, shouldn’t have to deal with his stupid brain and the stupid side effects that come with it. 

A wave of nausea rolls over him, and Dan suppresses a groan as he turns away from Phil, facing the wall. His eyes follow a thin crack spanning up from the baseboard to the middle of the wall. He wonders why he hasn’t noticed it before. He wonders if it’s new, or if it appeared sometime in the last two years they’ve lived there, or if it’s been there the whole time and Dan was never as observant as he is in this moment. He wonders if Phil noticed it, and maybe he meant to tell Dan but didn’t. Or maybe he’s seen it and didn’t want to tell Dan about it at all. But most likely he hasn’t noticed it, and Dan will be the one to tell him about it, later when he feels like talking and sees it again. The memory will be tinged with the nausea and pain of this moment, but it’s something to tell Phil about. Something that doesn’t hold much weight, to bring up in menial, domestic conversation that Dan wishes he could have right now. 

But it’s late at night and Phil’s sound asleep. And they have work to do tomorrow. Videos to plan, clips to edit, a radio show to draft in preparation for the weekend. And Phil will inevitably have to pick up where Dan slacks. Again. Because that’s almost been a guarantee these last few weeks, where Dan’s brain and his futile attempt at trying to fix it have been holding him back. 

It all feels like so much more than when it was just his brain withholding him. Maybe it’s having that definitive answer, that sterile diagnosis. It’s an explanation, and an excuse he wants to refuse using that way but can’t help it when it becomes just that. 

But maybe it’s the lack of change that makes it too much. The fact that he’s taken the steps to try and be better, made himself sicker for the cause, pushed himself out of his comfort zone, only to garner … nothing. Nothing at all. Just discomfort and anxiety and queasiness. 

And guilt. Guilt that comes back when Phil sighs heavily in his sleep. Dan’s stomach turns, and he feels as if he can’t take laying in this bed any longer. 

So he slips out from under the duvet, quietly creeping out of the room and downstairs to the bathroom. 

He makes his way to the toilet, opening the lid and crouching by the bowl, wondering if making himself throw up will help him feel better. He knows in the back of his mind that it won’t, that it will probably make him feel worse, and that throwing up the pills that are supposed to help his stupid brain is not the best idea. 

So instead he stares into the toilet bowl, his gaze fixated on the small ripples in the water. It’s kind of gross, he thinks, to be staring into a toilet that he can’t remember when it was cleaned last. He clutches the edge of the porcelain, contemplating—only for a moment—if he were to leave the loo and lean against the bathroom sink instead. Train his eyes on the little wicker shelving unit in the corner by the door. Let his gaze fall on the drawer second from the top where half-empty bottles of cough syrup and hastily shoved away nausea tablets sit, amongst a variety of medicines they’ve purchased over the last three years together, nearly half of which Dan assumes to be expired. 

But cold medicine wouldn’t be Dan’s goal. No, it would be the little blister packet stored at the back, ten of the twelve spots in it occupied. He would know exactly where to reach, too. He was the last one to put it away after all. And he always puts it back in the same place for ease of access when Phil’s head is pounding too hard for him to walk down to the bathroom and take one of the heavy painkillers he was prescribed. And always just one, because taking more would be dangerous. 

Dan made sure to drill that into his head when Phil came home with them, immediately adding it to the growing mental list of ways to care for Phil he started nearly five years ago. At this point he’s sure he’ll take the instructions to his grave, but now—now he tosses them to the side, thinking of pushing the ten little pills out of the packet. One by one by one they’d fall into his palm, resting there far too gently for such lethal intentions. And as if they were sweets he’d pop them in his mouth, one by one by one. He’d turn on the tap, leaning his head under and force them down. 

He thinks that it wouldn’t be pretty, that choking on his own sick will do the job before the drugs even have a chance to kick in. But he wouldn’t know, at least. He figures he would black-out before having the chance to experience any of it. Just clean, black slate and only a few moments to wait for it all to end. 

It would be easy, he thinks. So easy. There would be struggle, because regardless of what happens in his brain his body will fight to continue, but it would be easy. 

His hand slips from the toilet bowl and he leans back against the tiled wall. He can’t. He can’t do that. He shouldn’t be entertaining it, either. It’s not fair. Not to Phil, who would find him. Not to his family, to his friends. Even to himself. 

But it would still be easy. Easier than making himself feel sick by taking medication that doesn’t seem to work. Easier than trying to open up the doors he’s kept firmly shut for years to a complete stranger. Easier than facing everything head on. 

Maybe that’s the point. That it isn’t supposed to be easy. That the pills aren’t a magic fix and just talking doesn’t unravel years and years of messy interpersonal complexities Dan can’t even begin to comprehend on his own. 

Dan turns his head so the side of his face rests against the cold tile. It feels nice, soothing the heat in cheek. Resting the back of his arms against the tile, he’s suddenly aware of how hot he actually is. His stomach churns again, and he realizes that the nausea must be making him clammy. 

_Fuck_ , he thinks. _This is total bullshit_. 

_But it’s supposed to help_ , a quieter voice says at the back of his mind. 

Yes. Yes, it’s supposed to help, even if it doesn’t feel like it’s helping. Dan sighs, shutting his eyes. He tries to focus on the coolness of the tile on his skin and the way it seeps through his pyjama bottoms onto the backs of his legs. He thinks he could sleep here, despite the unforgiving floor and how cramped this space is. It’s cold and sounds of the occasional car passing by drifts through the thinly paned window, and Dan takes great comfort in how mundane and trivial it is. There’s nothing to really think about, focusing on the cold and the sounds of the city at night. Dan likes not thinking. It’s relieving, to separate himself for a moment and let his environment consume him. 

But of course, it only ever lasts for a moment. A thought from the back of Dan’s mind wiggles its way into the foreground, telling him that he can’t sleep here. He can’t let Phil find him curled up next to their toilet. Can’t take the look on his face when he does. And even if Phil doesn’t find him, waking up with his face centimetres away from a toilet _will_ be a new low for him. And Dan doesn’t think he can handle any more lows right now. 

Dan peels himself off the ground, immediately missing the cold against his skin. He takes a breath in, facing the toilet door. He makes eye contact with an airbrushed Zayn Malik, a sultry expression on his face. Dan wishes he could laugh at the stupid poster on the bathroom door now. Wishes he could muster up the energy to think up some dumb joke about Zayn and tell Phil about it. He wishes that it doesn’t feel like a feat to grab the knob and open the door. But it does and he’s tired. He wants to sit right back down on the floor, but he knows he can’t. 

His eyes prick as he leans against the wall. He wonders if he’s going to cry. He’s felt like crying these past few days, wondered if it would maybe help if he did, but he just hasn’t been able to. 

He worries that he’s just broken, and so completely beyond repair. Maybe that’s why the medication isn’t working as fast as he’d like it to. Maybe that’s why he can’t bring himself to feel properly. He knows he’s unwell enough to get help, and is willing to try and get better, but maybe—maybe he’s just not meant to get better. 

_Just grab the fucking doorknob, Dan,_ he thinks roughly to himself. _Grab the handle, open the door and walk up the fucking stairs._

“Fuck fuck fuck,” he whispers to himself, reaching out to the doorknob and wrenching it open. 

A wave of relief floods over him, followed by another pang of nausea in his stomach. He sighs, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, wishing for release from the heat behind his eyes and the sickness in his stomach. 

He gets neither in that moment, though, so he makes his way out of the bathroom and upstairs. 

He considers going into the lounge and curling up on the sofa, maybe turning on the TV for background noise to keep his thoughts at bay. Instead he keeps walking down the hall, eyes drifting back and forth between his and Phil’s bedroom doors. 

Dan knows there’s no way he can bring himself to crawl back in bed next to Phil. Any hope of sleep will be dashed at this point, and he feels too exhausted to indulge the thoughts and guilt floating around his mind about how little he deserves Phil. 

So Dan pushes the door to his bedroom open, quietly shutting it behind him. He crawls into bed, thankful that the vacant sheets lack any warmth. 

He feels like total shite, but his duvet is soft and his mattress is softer, both much nicer than the bathroom floor. 

There’s something about being alone, however, so deservingly alone and so undeservingly comfortable that makes Dan turn his face into his pillow, feeling wetness against his nose. 

His lower lip wobbles, and he feels the wetness spread on his pillowcase. There’s a dull stinging in his eyes, and he doesn’t feel the kind of comforting release he expected to feel when he was desperate for tears to fall. 

It doesn’t feel good. It feels self-indulgent, like he’s giving himself permission he doesn’t deserve to feel things he has no business feeling. Because he’s supposed to be getting better. Because he can’t burden the people around him with what he’s feeling. Because his life isn’t that bad, so he should feel better, especially with the steps he’s taken. 

The door creaks open, and Dan feels a dip in the bed near his hip. 

“Hey,” Phil says softly, his voice a little husky from sleep. 

Dan presses his face further into his pillow, muffling the sobs that escape from his lips and trying to push down the larger ones, building hotly in his chest. Phil is far too good for him. Far too nice for the tangled, fucked up disaster that Dan is. 

“What can I do?” Phil asks. 

It takes Dan a few moments to catch his breath, to be able to break through the tears and speak. Phil waits silently, and he feels bad about much patience he must be using on Dan. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, lifting his face off the pillow to see Phil shaking his head. 

“Don’t apologize. Please,” he lays a hand on Dan’s arm, his touch light but comforting. “Tell me what I can do, Dan.” 

He shakes his head. “There’s nothing you can do. I’m all fucked up and even though I’m trying not to be, I am.” 

Phil pauses, and for a second Dan thinks he might be giving in. That Phil might just be proving how much of a hopeless case he is, how right all the vicious voices in his head are. 

“But you’re trying.” 

“What?” he asks, thickly. 

“You’re trying, Dan.” he rubs his thumb against Dan’s bicep. “You’re trying, and you’ve already taken so many steps forward.” 

“Nothing’s working, though,” Dan mumbles, pressing his cheek back into the pillow. 

“It’s trial and error, yeah?” His voice is gentle and slow. “You told me that, remember? When you came home from that appointment with your medication? That the doctor said it might not work on the first go, and you’ll be sick for a while.” 

He did tell Phil that. He hasn’t forgotten, he just … can’t take getting nothing from all this effort. 

“Yeah. I remember.” 

“So, we’ll wait? And see what happens? Together, yeah?” Phil’s voice is barely at a whisper now, and Dan feels tears prick in his eyes again. 

“So what can I do?” he asks when Dan doesn’t reply. 

He really, really doesn’t deserve him. But he’s still here, selflessly willing to help Dan, willing to love Dan. He doesn’t deserve him but he must have done something good for him to be here still. 

And maybe Dan will come back to these thoughts with a less clouded state of mind and laugh at them. He can't wait for that day to come, because deep down he knows the thoughts are irrational and wrong, however persuasive to latch onto they might be right now. He can't wait for that day to come, because he will be better. Because if his efforts so far and the man sitting next to him are any proof of positive change, it’s that getting better is an inevitable ending, not an impossible one. 

He sniffs, looking back up at Phil. “I don’t think I can sleep.” 

Phil nods. “Okay. So we won’t sleep.” 

“That’s hardly fair to you,” he says. 

“It doesn’t matter—Shh, let me finish? It’s one night. It doesn’t matter, Dan. You matter more.” 

“You’re too nice to me.” Dan murmurs. 

Phil breathes out heavily, shutting his eyes. “I love you. And I’m here for you, okay? Always.”

“Okay,” he says in a small voice. “D’you—”

His breath catches in his throat, and Phil looks at him curiously as he starts again. “D’you think we could put on a film? Or maybe I could watch you play Mario Kart or something? Just … a distraction?” 

“Yeah,” Phil says, smiling at him. “Yeah, we can do that. In the lounge?” 

Dan nods, and Phil stands up, offering a hand to him. He pushes back the duvet and takes it, letting Phil pull him off the bed. 

“But first,” Phil says, using his free hand to softly wipe at Dan’s tear-stained cheeks. “We need to stop at the kitchen.” 

“The kitchen? Is this some kind of midnight snack quest now? Want to take advantage of my cereal while I’m down?” He jokes halfheartedly. 

Phil laughs, smiling so widely at him one would think Dan had just told him he’d won the lottery. 

“ _No_ , but I’m glad you’ve got that on your mind. I’ll keep that idea for later,” he says. “No, we’re stopping at the kitchen because right now I’d kill for coffee … literally.” 

The joke is so ridiculously lame, and Phil says it with such unnecessary dramatics that Dan can’t help laughing. 

“You’re so stupid,” Dan says wetly. “That was so stupid.” 

“But you loved it,” he says, grinning and dragging Dan out into the hall. 

Dan nods, a small smile on his face. “But I loved it.”

**Author's Note:**

> title from "Soda" by Nothing But Thieves. 
> 
> you can like/reblog this on [tumblr](https://obsessivelymoody.tumblr.com/post/183413462857/15-if-you-wanna) if you want.


End file.
